


The Whipping Boy

by havetaoque



Series: Spideypool stories [3]
Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Alcoholism, Angst, Dark, Denial, Fluff, Hero Wade, Hurt Peter, Hurt/Comfort, Language, M/M, Peter Needs a Hug, Physical Abuse, Wade to the rescue, awful Harry, mentions of abuse, messed up family, servant - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-14
Updated: 2017-06-14
Packaged: 2018-11-13 23:50:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11196051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/havetaoque/pseuds/havetaoque
Summary: Peter has been Harry's whipping boy for years. He never thought he could be anything else until a masked mercenary climbs through his window and tells him otherwise.





	The Whipping Boy

**Author's Note:**

> I have not been in Peter's situation as far as the physical violence described in this fic, but I unfortunately know what it's like on some other fronts. That being said, it's a complex situation, which I can't claim to write about well or in any complete form in such a short fic, and I don't mean to offend anyone with the way I've portrayed them in this story. Please read at your own risk.

Peter’s room was small, but at least it had a door that he could pretend to lock at night.

He punched his flat pillow into shape and lay on his stomach, shaking in the chilly air, but unable to tolerate the scratchy blanket against the sores on his back. He had been fast asleep only an hour ago, but Harry had come back well after his curfew again and well, it wasn’t likely Peter would get any more sleep tonight.

Norman Osborn must have been tired today too, because his stick had kissed Peter’s flesh with less of its usual gusto, and that also meant less blood to scrub off the hardwood immediately after, so Peter was doubly grateful.

He shouldn’t be grateful for any of it, he knew, but well, he couldn’t help it. And besides, he could take it better than Harry could. Harry had grown up in luxury, with nurses scrambling to coo over every scraped knee or cut knuckle and feed him ice cream in the kitchens when Norman Osborn was busy in his study. Harry had tailored clothing that cost more than Peter’s monthly wages (though one of the Osborn monogramed handkerchiefs also probably cost more than Peter’s monthly wages), so getting dirty was basically a tragedy. Harry was always clean, pale, smooth-skinned, and quietly authoritative. He was the spitting image of his father, and command came as easily to him as cringing from a raised hand came to Peter.

A soft knock made Peter tense up. He looked over his shoulder and saw Harry standing in his doorway in the dark. He had a bottle of liquor tucked in his jacket.

Peter sat up and faced him. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah,” Harry said, twisting his hands. “I’m fine. Just a bit shaken. My old man really knows how to make me feel valued. Honestly, I shouldn’t even have a curfew. I’m twenty-one.”

“Well,” Peter said, hiding a grimace, “you’re still his son and he cares about your safety. You do keep interesting company.”

“You mean Lacey?” He giggled. “Yeah, she’s interesting alright.”

Peter shrugged and winced when the motion pulled at the cuts on his back. “Yeah, she and the others. Maybe he would give you more responsibility at the company if you started following his rules more often?”

Harry shook his head. “See, Pete, that’s what he wants me to think. But I do what I want. He always told me you can’t anywhere in life letting other people tell you what to do, and I don’t mean to. He can’t dictate my life anymore. The company will be mine one day anyway, and I already know more about it than he thinks. I keep up with all the board members and go over the accounts and things. It’s just that he never notices when I do good things. He only ever seems to pay attention to me when I happen to slip up.”

 _Yeah that’s when he pays attention to me too_ , Peter thought grimly.

“I have wanted his love and pride for so long, but I see now that it’s never going to happen, no matter what I do. Whether I defy him or obey him, it doesn’t make one difference. I’m my own man.”

Peter nodded. Right, no difference. “That you are.”

Harry nodded to himself. “Well, I should probably be getting to bed now. Good night, Pete. You’re a good friend.”

“’Night, Harry.”

Peter sighed in the dark and got up to close the door after sticking his head out to make sure Harry made it up the stairs in one piece. A faint alcohol smell lingered near the door and Peter flapped his hands at it, trying to banish it after its owner.

He flopped back down on the bed and cursed, rolling onto his stomach with a whine. “Ow.”

 

 

Wade packed up his guns on the rooftop across the street from Norman Osborn’s massive house. He missed his mark when a huge truck caravan passed below him on the street, blocking his sight line. Little Osborn had vanished safely inside the house by the time the trucks rumbled on.

“Well, we’ll just have to wait,” Wade said. But it couldn’t hurt to do a little snooping in the meantime.

He climbed down the fire escape and crossed the street. The house was all imposing stone and arches and long driveways, but there was topiary! Wade advanced on the property, one bush at a time, striking a pose next to the mermaid on the fountain at the center of the drive. There weren’t any coins on the bottom of the fountain, which Wade found mildly disappointing.

He went around to the back where the shadows were deepest and shot a grappling hook to the roof to climb up the wall. All the windows were dark. Perfect. He set his boots against the stone and started up the side of the house.

 

Peter couldn’t sleep. The welts, of course, weren’t as bad as that one time five years ago when Harry had given a very sincere, but unauthorized, public apology to an old woman on behalf of Oscorp (that was the beating to take all beatings), but it kept him from sleeping. Peter got up and went to the little window, easing it open quietly. It was a new moon, but the city lights glowed softly. Peter stuck his head out the window to get some fresh air.

It smelled like tacos and gunpowder instead. He wrinkled his nose in confusion and happened to look to his left.

A large red-and-black shape stared back at him, white-masked eyes blinking.

“Uh,” Peter said. He rubbed his eyes. The – he could see it was a man now – was still there. “I don’t think you’re supposed to be there?”

“You don’t sound too sure about that, baby boy.”

“Well, it’s just I usually don’t see people climbing around my window at this hour.”

“You up late a lot? You should be sleeping right now. Everyone else is.”

“Can’t sleep,” Peter said, shrugging. He winced again, and crossed his arms over his bare chest as the breeze blew toward him. The man was watching him with a look that made Peter’s face heat up. He grasped for something to say. “So, uh, why are you here?”

“Just doing a little recon. I’m on a job.”

“What sort of job?”

“The kind that ends with somebody dead and a lot of cash for me.”

“So you’re a mercenary.”

“I am _the_ mercenary, baby boy. The name’s Pool, Deadpool. At your service,” he said, extending a gloved hand to shake.

“I’m Peter Parker.” Peter took his hand and shook it.

“Huh.” He looked at Peter’s hand in his. “People usually run away screaming by now,” Deadpool said.

“Well, in case you can’t tell, I don’t really have any place to run,” Peter said, gesturing behind to the tiny room, taken up almost entirely by an old twin mattress.

Deadpool craned his neck to look through the little window. He pulled back and stared blankly at Peter. “You have a whole fucking house to run around in.”

“Yeah, but I’m a servant. I’m not gonna go run around screaming while everyone’s asleep. Not that I do that when they’re awake, I mean. Well, sometimes, not the running bit, of course, but—uh— never mind.” _Foot in mouth syndrome, much, Parker?_ he thought.

Deadpool’s eyes widened in the mask. He reached a hand out to pull himself closer to the window and Peter visibly flinched away. Deadpool withdrew, frowning.

“Are you okay?”

“What? Yeah, why wouldn’t I be? You didn’t even do anything.”

Deadpool narrowed his eyes. “Turn around.”

“No.”

“Turn around, Peter.” Deadpool gripped the window ledge and pulled himself closer. Peter stood stiffly.

“Are they hurting you?”

“What makes you think that? Of course not. That’s ridiculous.”

“It’s not ridiculous,” Deadpool said, softening. “But you just flinched pretty hard, and like a minute ago you looked like you were in pain.” He sighed. “Just please let me see. I know what it’s like.”

Peter exhaled and turned around slowly.

“What’s a mercenary going to do about it?” Peter muttered.

“Uh, maybe off whoever’s doing this to you? Shit, baby, your scars have scars. What are they doing to you?”

“I think that’s pretty obvious,” Peter snarked, feeling defensive. He crossed his arms and turned back around to glare at Deadpool.

But Deadpool’s demeanor had lost its previous warmth. “Give me a name and I’ll make it stop,” he said, voice low. Peter felt it rumble in his chest.

Tempting. Peter was so tempted to finally tell someone, to talk about it now that it was out in the open. But he had grown up with Harry, played with Harry, accepted his punishments because Harry was special and he was a nobody. Besides, Harry wasn’t cruel. He never hit Peter. Norman Osborn did that, but he was Harry’s father, and no matter how much Harry ranted and professed to hate his father while drunk and sober, Peter knew he loved him deeply, and that Norman loved his son, in whatever twisted way that seemed to pass for love in the Osborn household.

But it was Harry’s fault, part of Peter argued. And Norman’s. And he wouldn’t mind if Norman Osborn were gone forever. The older he got, the harder it became for Peter to rationalize the treatment he received. And the weaker he became, the more he wondered what would happen if he stopped taking the Oscorp suppressants, if he could lift a car or stick to walls and climb out of the Osborn House and never return. But Peter barely remembered what his powers were like, and he was afraid of them. He had had them for all of one day before Norman Osborn found him on the foyer ceiling after he had caused a major traffic accident six years ago. That was the first and only time he had been beaten for his own misbehavior. They started him on suppressants that day, and Peter went back to being ‘normal.’

Peter was startled from his thoughts by warm, rough hands on his back. He was sitting on his bed and Deadpool was behind him, having squeezed through the window somehow, rubbing something soothing into the welts on his back.

Peter blinked and realized he had been crying. How embarrassing. He wiped at his eyes and nose and tried to pull away, but Deadpool held him back with a gentle touch on the back of his neck and smoothed some more cream onto his skin.

“What”—Peter cleared his throat. “What is that?”

“It’s a skin lotion. Helps with stuff like this. I use it all the time. Works real nice.”

“Feels good,” Peter said, voice hollow. To his complete mortification, he felt more tears slipping down his cheeks. His shoulders shook.

A rough hand wiped some of the tears away. Peter caught it and held it in his own, looking at the scars knotting the flesh. Deadpool tensed up behind him, but said nothing.

“Looks like my back,” Peter whispered.

Deadpool huffed a laugh and tried to pull his hand back. “Nah, your back is beautiful compared to my skin.”

Peter turned around and tucked his legs under him, facing Deadpool. “I like your skin,” he said, running his thumb over the back of Deadpool’s hand. “I… I feel less alone.”

Deadpool swallowed and withdrew his hand. “How’s your back feeling now?”

“A lot better, actually. What’s in that stuff?”

“It’s like snails and aloe and a bunch of weird plant extracts and shit. Not actual shit. I, uh, mixed in a little of my blood. I know that sounds disgusting, but I have a healing factor, so that might help you along.”

Peter smiled and thought he might start crying again. The clock on the wall struck three, and Peter shivered from the open window.

“Well,” Deadpool said, dragging out the word. “I will be getting on my way soon. Recon and such.” He watched Peter carefully, but made no move to get up.

“Is Norman Osborn your target?” Peter asked suddenly.

Deadpool hesitated. “No.”

“Harry,” Peter said. Deadpool nodded.

“He’s just a kid.”

“He’s a legal adult, even though he may be a spoiled baby,” Deadpool said, standing. In a lower voice, he added, “he’s the one that does this to you, isn’t he?”

Peter shook his head. “No… Yes. It’s Norman Osborn that actually does it, but it’s to punish Harry.”

“That’s so fucked up.”

“It’s always been that way. He’s the heir of the Osborn fortune. I’m just a nobody. They took me in when I was a baby, gave me a home, keep me fed.” He shrugged, like what can I do?

“You’re not a nobody. You’re somebody.”

“No,” Peter said, shaking his head. “I’m not normal. I’ve got weird abilities, and I can only get the suppressants for them if I’m here. And…and… Harry needs me.”

“Oh, Petey,” Deadpool sighed.

Peter’s back was healed up enough for him to wrap a blanket around himself. He sat on the bed and watched Deadpool pace in the small space between the window and the bed.

“I have a proposition,” he said, stopping in front of Peter.

“Oh?” Peter raised an eyebrow.

“Not that kind of proposition. Not now, at least,” he said, winking. Peter blushed.

He declared, “By tomorrow morning, Harry Osborn will be dead.”

“What!”

“Unless you leave with me right now.”

“That’s not a proposition, that’s a threat!”

“Same difference. So what’s it gonna be? If you leave with me, I promise not to kill him. You’ll be saving his life _and_ your life. I’m not leaving you here to be abused any longer.”

“I’m not—”

“Yes you are. That’s what it is – they’re abusing you. You don’t deserve it. It’s not your fault and you’re not inferior at all. I can help you figure out these powers you have. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

“So I’m just going to live on the run, staying away so you don’t kill them?”

“No, you’ll live with me. Or wherever you want. I’m filthy rich. Look, I just want you to be okay. This place isn’t healthy for you. You could go to college and be whatever you want and have your own life.”

“And Harry won’t get killed.”

“Cross my heart and hope to die. Stick a needle in my eye. I’ve actually had that happen before. It’s not as much fun as it is to say.”

Peter was quiet for a long time. Finally, he sighed loudly.

“What’s your name?”

“Deadpool.”

“Your actual name.”

“…It’s Wade. Wade Wilson.”

Peter went to his trunk and pulled out a flannel shirt, buttoning it carefully.

“Okay, Wade. I’m ready to go.”

 

 

\--

Peter burrowed under the blankets, seeking out the warmth where Wade had just been.

“Rise and shine, Spidey! It’s pancake time!”

The sheets moved as Peter shifted, but he took too long getting up and a shower of pancakes pelted down on his back.

“Wade!” Peter shrieked, scrambling to throw off the sheets. More pancakes landed on his chest and thighs, followed by one scarred merc, kneeling above him in nothing but a pink apron.

Peter laughed up at his boyfriend and plucked a pancake off his stomach and took a bite. He lay back on the pillows, chewing happily. “You make the best pancakes, babe.”

“And they taste even better eaten off you,” Wade said. He tossed the empty plate across the bed and sat down on Peter’s thighs. Peter snatched up another pancake that had fallen on his hip.

“This gives breakfast in bed a whole new meaning,” Peter said.

“Mmm, yes it does.”

Peter reached out to play with the frills on the hem of Wade’s apron. “I love when you cook for me.”

Wade grinned. “Ah, but no pancake is complete without one hundred percent pure Canadian maple syrup!” He cackled and produced a bottle of syrup from…

“Where were you hiding that?”

Wade cackled and uncapped the bottle, drizzling it over the pancakes on Peter’s stomach. Peter squeaked and kicked, and Wade nearly dropped the bottle. The syrup came out in a rush before Wade recovered.

“Oh. No,” he said, eyes going comically wide. “Hey! Who made this big mess?!”

Peter rolled his eyes. “Please no.”

“TEN SECOND TIDY!”


End file.
